JtHMood
by tennreasonsvv
Summary: A selection of songfics based off of my Spotify playlist of the same name. Some are for characters and some are for scenes. Rated M for gore/suicide/etc. JtHM and characters belong to Jhonen Vasquez. All songs are credited to the bands/artists in chapter titles.


This felt so different. Johnny watched himself mop up the red substance, watched as his hand, clad in protective black rubber wrung out a sponge into a bucket. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was definitely something off about, well everything at this moment. It hit him, as he felt a crunch under his boot. This was so empty. He picked up the frames, lens smashed beyond repair. Johnny was normally very fervent and excitable in his killings.

He remembered talking to his latest victim. The emptiness grew and threatened to consume his thin frame. He carelessly threw the glasses to the ground. Useless and without function.

Much like the owner.

Could it be humanly possible to have a part of you hollowed out without knowing it? Johnny wondered briefly as he wrapped tentative, defensive arms against his frame.

The blood that stained his sleeves brought him back to the objective at hand. The bucket that was propped next to his right foot, the sponge that used to be a brilliant yellow, stained forever, drifting in the sea of red.

For the first time in a long time Johnny C. felt nauseous, light-headed, and wobbily. This blood was not... was not his. It didn't belong to him. Of course none of his victim's blood belonged to him in the way one pumps one's own. But normally Johnny owned the blood, owned it like a flashy jewel, he gathered it. He glared upwards. This blood definitely did not belong to the demon wall of 777, either. Looking back down, the sponge had drifted a little more, he let out a breath he wasn't consciously aware of holding. This blood still belonged to Edgar Vargas. It was special. And he had stole it.

 _'Hurry up before you go and get old.'_

Johnny was broken out of his helpless trance by a voice. A voice who last proclaimed his current residence. The killer wondered if maybe there was a waiting room on Earth. But then he realized Edgar would definitely be VIP or whatever the fuck it would be up there.

He looked around and around. The hair on his neck stood erect and he swiveled. His voice broke calling out his name, "Edgar? You wouldn't happen to still be here? I can give you back your blood? Do you take returns? Does 'He' take returns?"

A soft whisper back.

' _Hurry up before your blood runs cold.'_

The Wall groaned. It knew its next feast would fill it and keep its hunger at bay. It would be satisfied. That useless wretch better hurry. It screamed and groaned.

Johnny shook with a supernatural chill. Edgar's bodiless voice and the shrill of The Wall clanged together in his psyche. Banged him around. His nerves were so used to being fried, but now they were freezing. He continued to shiver as he ascended the steps to the upper levels of the house. The bucket was tight in his grip; it bounced against his calf a few times. Johnny watched with indifference as red splashed onto the stairs.

' _None of us were ever meant to stay.'_

How nice would it be to expire by a fatal stair accident.

He could not have possibly ever been that lucky. He cleared the steps and found himself in another room. Attempt after attempt after freak accident. No death, no repercussion. No punishment. Nothing. Empty.

Was he ever going to be at peace?

 _'We're all gonna find out one day.'_

Edgar's voice answered him and he nearly accepted it.

He faced The Wall.

It was so hideous. So gruesome. Was there even enough shades of red, brown, and black in the metaphorical color wheel to describe the old and fresh carnage? The forgotten artist in Johnny shrugged, figured that it took a lot of shading, mixing, blending. His mind blanked and he was suddenly thinking of making a smoothie.

His mind always ran. Always cowered and scampered at the thought of anything art related.

Edgar came back again, this time with a bite to his voice, ' _You see life's too short to run it like a race.'_

Johnny C. groaned with a phantom mental pain. He wished Edgar, wherever he was, would stop talking. Stop acting like this hallmark movie poster. Like he had it all together. He was dead for fuck's sake. Johnny didn't feel like it was a race, but he felt he won in some way when it came to the situation at hand.

 _'So it's never going to matter if you win first place.'_ A hiss of annoyance. What a tick. Blood-sucking. Blood... blood... Johnny's hands left his head as he glanced at the bucket. He didn't just glance at it, he studied it. How. How was he any different from... from the ticks? This blood. He had blood.

 _'Cause we're all the same'_ Edgar's voice cut through everything. It held for a while and Johnny had no room to think. To pity his miserable hypocrisy.

Edgar manifested in whispers and shadows in Johnny's withered skull. His eyes were clamped shut. Trying to block out his words but Edgar overpowered everything.

 _'Stop waiting on your fifteen minutes of fame.'_ Johnny huffed, he didn't think of it as fame. Fame, pah! Why did he need adoration or a mob of mindless teenagers to make himself whole. He was offended Edgar could even-

His mental voice hitched. How long had he... had he took before he killed Vargas?

 _'Cause you're not special.'_ The Walls were closing in on him. Whether they were physical or the ones that existed in his mind, they suffocated him. A sob tore through his throat. Dry, no tears had started yet, but he still felt strangled like he was going to break down any moment.

 _'I'm not trying to rain on your parade, but you're not special'_ Johnny's eyes shot open as he was being violently shaken. His eyes tore to the thick tendril laced around his forearm. He suddenly became aware of the blood dripping from puncture marks in his scalp. He lowered his arms and weakly padded over to the bucket as the tendril moaned at the sight of a nice meal.

His eyes and mouth had never been so dry before.

Johnny dropped to his knees and stared as two long bangs dipped dangerously into the blood bucket. Indigo came back up, dripping with crimson. Tears mixed with blood and he was aware he had started crying. Without much warning he felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist and a thick patch of hair on skin over his shoulder.

 _'I'm not trying to bring you down. I'm not trying to sound so ineffectual.'_ Johnny straightened and barked an obscenity to the phantom. The touch lifted. His heart was still racing and he noticed how his shoulder felt bare and cold and his waist seemed even more emaciated. He hated touching, but a hug from this ghost left him longing for friendly affection again.

 _'But you're not special.'_ Edgar said off-handedly, pushing roughly away from Johnny. Not enough to warrant attack and not too little to imply that there wasn't left to be desired. Just enough that Johnny felt hurt and oddly offended. And empty again. Edgar didn't want Nny to feel pain or even regret, but he was aware his presence was doing just that. He acknowledged this with the same indifference he had staring at the blood bucket in front of the black-haired man.

He was back there.

Back before all the nothing. Back when there was something.

 _'Hurry up before the bottle kicks in'_

Nny stared at himself staring at Edgar. At Edgar as he was in those fifteen minutes of suspension. Edgar watched from a distance, disconnected. This wasn't for him. This was for Nny. His bestest bestest friend.

However, he couldn't help but warn Nny, _'Before the poison and the pain sets in.'_ Fifteen minutes was a long time to awaken and take in your death.

Edgar looked down at the tortured soul before him. He had gone into a rant, a crazed but not so delusional as paranoid rant about how everything and everyone was so against him.

Johnny's voice was grating on his ears, but still he listened. He listened because he needed to and if he was going to die soon, at least give free therapy to the killer.

Well past him listened.

This time, as Johnny wailed about indifference and his pain and the torment of humans, Edgar cut him off. He was short of time and his voice sliced through the air faster than Johnny could register.

 _'If you take it down a notch and you let me explain.'_ Nny suddenly became acutely aware he had asked his guest his opinion, as his rage boiled inside at being interrupted.

 _'That on this earth we are all the same.'_ A nod came from the lanky man in front of him. He was encouraging him to continue. But Edgar raged inside, knowing the only reason he allowed him to continue was because he disconnected himself from the equation.

Again his voice bit, where he no longer could, ' _And all I can say is stop waiting on your fifteen minutes of fame.'_ He looked down at Nny, _'Cause you're not special.'_ Johnny's eyebrow cocked upwards, the scent of bloodlust filled his nostrils. Insolent fool! Fame?! Before he could do anything he swallowed his words with a metallic twinge of deja-vu.

Instead he let Edgar continue.

' _I'm not trying to rain on your parade, but you're not special.'_ Edgar's hardened look turned to that of a pitying glance, picking up on the thorns of self-hatred and defensive ego threatening to break each other and build each other up within Nny.

' _I'm not trying to bring you down. I'm not trying to sound so ineffectual, but you're not special.'_ Johnny felt a growl tickle his throat. "You say it as if I didn't know that." He flicked away a piece of lint from his shirt. He looked up at Edgar. "I may not be special but at least-"

Edgar didn't give him the room to continue, his voice instantly backing Nny's into a metaphorical corner.

' _We all live to love. We all fall apart. We'd all go to war for the faint of heart._ '

He gestured with the small swivel of his hands. And in it Nny could tell he was pitting himself, this room, this house into the definition. And his stomach lurched because he knew he was right. In that moment Nny disconnected from the memory. He let the memory run as it did. He didn't stop his past actions. But Edgar continued.

' _Instead we're condescending. There are no happy endings._ '

Edgar felt the tentative hold he had on Earth slip as Heaven called for him. He turned sharply towards Nny as he picked up the brush and the memory faded back into reality.

He placed the brush firmly into Nny's palm, and the man shuddered. Johnny's hand trembled when he saw the forever tinted red bristles. Oh god. Hadn't this once have been white? Yes. It had been faux white and it used to be so so soft. Nny could remember times he needed a physical touch of innocent pleasure and he painted nothing into the top of his hand. The bristles were always a welcome touch.

Shrieking horror left in his wake of a peaceful memory as he found his muscles doing the same; instead of nothing, the brush left behind blood. Stark traces of red glinted against his dark skin and the bristles bit at his paper thin hand. So much so he doubted all of the blood was from the bucket.

He almost forgot about the striped-shirted ghost who held his palm fiercely. Again he wrenched away from the touch. He glared. He remembered.

"If you're here to tell me those things I already know, then don't. I'm..." he glared as hot tears pooled in the corner of sleep-deprived eyes when he caught sight of the ruined art utensil, "...busy."

 _'I won't hold my breath. I wont cast a doubt. I'd never sell you out.'_

He held Nny in place. He had his hands on Nny's shoulders. The man looked at him, looked at Edgar. Edgar came into full apparition. His touch felt as if it never disappeared off the realm of the living.

 _'But I'll give you last chance to own it.'_

Johnny started to space. He could feel it. No matter how hard he tried to keep him down, Edgar could feel his sanity slip-sliding away. Trying to ration with Nny's perception. Trying to make it better. Trying to make Nny feel better.

The blood bucket went away and so did the sponge. Come to think, Nny could only notice one thing in the room. And he was a person. And he was named Edgar Vargas.

He smiled, floating, drifting. The gears were working so hard. Edgar had to ask if there was anything fixable in Johnny C.

Edgar breathed in and patted Johnny's face, "Johnny C.?"

The man rose his eyes to the apparition, "You can call me, 'Nny.'"

The ghost played along, "Is that with a 'k' like in 'knee cap'?"

A habitual move of his shoulders to place a hand in his ratted indigo hair. His smile grew. "No, but it's pronounced the same."

Edgar sighed. Earth was becoming a concept to him. But he held on, to finish this. To give Nny this.

"Ok, well then! Does that mean I can..." he took the opportunity to stare into Nny's eyes, "... **go** now?" He lifted a hand to brush at Nny's hypnotized face. "Because," he trailed looking away, "and I mean no offense by this."

He met Johnny's eyes again and finished just as his touch lifted and he placed his hand back on Nny's shoulder.

"I **_would_ **like to go."

Reality was a cruel thing. Johnny C. knew that, yet he still yearned for it. Grasped for it. And howled in despair when it was taken from him in the form of sleep or unconsciousness.

His bones felt heavy as the room came into view. Red, miles and miles of it came into view. The Wall warped. It was so hungry and Johnny was just standing there. Angry and so very starved it grasped a bladed branch around Johnny's ankle and pulled. The floor was against his face before he knew it. Something was sticky against his cheek. A small puddle of the darkest blood he could fathom. Not red in the slightest, but black and riddled with stars.

Johnny C. didn't like reality, but as he stared back at his face; bloody, snotty, and oh god what the _**fuck** happened to my other eye?_ He welcomed it, gasping as he shot up from his resting position at the foot of The Wall. His chest heaved and he retched from being thrown into one reality to another. There was nothing in his stomach so he dry-heaved painfully, hoping that it would cause a heart attack and kill him right then in there. Because as he stared up at The Wall and saw what was painted so starkly against dried brownish-black blood, he wished to not breathe at all.

 _'Cause you're not a god or a poet'_

It was painted in bright coats of red. Fresh blood. Striking and violent and Nny couldn't say beautiful, because somewhere in his gut he knew it was only a senseless tragedy. He clamored to his hands and one knee before lifting himself up completely. He traced the words with his hand, the red immediately became acquainted with his palm.

"Fuck fear." he finally put a voice to what he saw written in red and in the corner of his eyes a man appeared. He was Edgar Vargas. This was his blood. "I killed you."

Edgar stared back steely, calm.

"I envy your conviction." he said back finally.

Nny's face drained of color and he trembled just as he had before. "Oh god. Oh fuck. Please stop this Edgar! The forgetting, the remembering. Just let one or the other happen!" he screeched, melting into a panic.

 _'So, stop waiting on your fifteen minutes of fame. 'Cause you're not special_.' Edgar's voice crashed down him as did a swell of music.

Nny was drowning in this. Drowning in what? Drowning in blood. He had way too much than just blood on his hands. Everything was stained. Even his organs. His mind was wall to wall with blood. Sticky, drippy, forever there. Just as Eff had said. His mind would never be cleared of the filth.

 _'I'm not trying to rain on your parade. But you're not special.'_

How long had a hypocrisy such as his festered like this? Always thinking as if he never gave judgement. He always did. His was just with pain and death and blood.

 _'Im not trying to bring you down. I'm not trying to sound so ineffectual.'_

Never gave anyone the benefit. Even Edgar at first. Just went on to kill him. Because he was a person. Because he wasn't very fond of people.

Edgar Vargas was so very special.

' _But you're not special_.'

Nny flung himself at Edgar and sobbed into his chest. The fact he remained stoic and did not return the embrace only made Nny's body wrack more with intense cries.

Nailbunny's voice yelled into Johnny's ears.

 _'Get up get up, get a move on. Get up, get up.'_ _'But you're not special.'_

Johnny clung tighter. No. No he wasn't. He was like everybody else on this rock. He was probably even worse. So much worse. So damaged. And the only person who could see that and probably help him fix it, he murdered.

Nailbunny again, with vigor.

' _Get up, get up. Get a move on. Get up, get up.'_

' _But you're not special.'_

Edgar's voice faded further and further and Johnny tried to seize it, as if it were tangible. Yet he knew with the dying of the instruments and the fading of Nailbunny's chants that Edgar was going. That he said to Johnny what he needed to and that he was free. Nny wondered why Edgar had stuck around for him. Why he felt so tethered to the homicidal maniac as to stay on Earth for a couple more... well how long _had_ it been?

' _Cause you're not special.'_

Nny nodded, felt a guilt like no other that Edgar had to repeat himself again. But even as he spoke to affirm it, Edgar's voice spoke only once more before fading away completely.

' _Cause you're not special.'_

Johnny looked to the floor. Time stood still for a few moments. Then suddenly and without much warning the sound of clapping filled his ears.

He looked up and saw the doughboys. They were clapping. His glare softened into what could be considered a frown of dread when he realized neither of them looked particularly enthused. In fact, they seemed solemn with each collision of their hands. Staring past Nny.

Johnny turned towards the wall and found the source of their applause. Edgar Vargas once more. Painted in so many impossible shades of red. His hair was blended into the old brown on the wall and his face contoured with crimson. Each stroke of red was not like the other. Edgar's familiar features were curled up in a smile. The straps of the torture device were turned into a crown of thorns and angel's wings. Each feather painted with the delicacy of an artist.

All of this beauty and yet Nny despaired. His clothes were immaculate and his hands didn't have a flake of gore and yet he never felt so filthy. His heart so heavy and bleeding with a thousand leaks, never felt so empty. He was empty again.

Johnny collapsed onto the floor, knocking over the little bit of blood that still remained in the bucket with him. Blood rushed up to greet him. It clung to his clothes, white box filling with crimson, sleeves becoming an alternating pattern of red and black, with a whisper of pink where blood hadn't sunk in so very permanently.

He rose his hands to his face, red dripping like paint down the cracks in his palm.

Johnny C. felt different as he laid down in a pool of blood. Empty. Empty like every other person roaming around outside the walls of his house at this horrible 2:00 AM. Empty like his stomach, which he neglected for days on end. Empty like Edgar Vargas' mark on this Earth. Empty.

Normally Johnny found comfort in a kill. Found pleasure in seeing them in pain.

It didn't make him any different from them. Just bathed him in blood.

Johnny C. hated organic fluids. Blood being one of them.

He wasn't special.


End file.
